Viktor slides into position and picks it up with a single stride. He moves with all muscle and angles, then slings it cross-ice with perfect weight.
Jake collects it on the rush, glances up, shoots—bar down.
One-nothing, Storm.
Back in my crease, I reset. Knees bent, weight forward, glove loose, and my vision locked in.
The second period hits harder. Vancouver’s top line is fast and nasty—a couple of rookies with something to prove and an overpaid vet who hasn’t realized his hands are slowing down.
They drive the net twice, trying to catch me out on rebounds, but I’m already square, and the puck flies wide.
“Eyes up!” I shout, warning Chase as a winger closes in from the weak side.
Chase swings around, skates backward at pace with his stick low. He pokes the puck loose, and Logan clears the slot with a full-body check that rattles the glass.
“Jesus, Hutch,” Chase mutters. “Next time, lead with ‘incoming freight train.’”
Logan huffs. “You didn’t see him?”
Viktor snorts as he skates by. “You have small reaction time. Like gerbil.”
I bite back a laugh behind the cage.
Next shift, the Canucks get a power play off a weak call—Logan’s caught for interference after a clean rub-out.
“Softest penalty I’ve ever seen,” Eli growls as he slides into the faceoff dot.
I stay focused because power plays are where everything slows down and speeds up at once.
First shot is a blast from the point. I flash the pad out and kick it into the corner. The second comes off a one-timer from the circle. I slide across and glove it mid-air.
Whistle.
“Fucking brick wall!” Jake skates by, slapping my shoulder as he changes lines.
The kill holds, and we survive it, and by the time the penalty expires, the crowd’s lost some of their edge.
We strike again on a clean cycle from the third line—one of our rookies finishes a rebound, and I catch his grin all the way from my crease as the guys crash the glass to celebrate.
Two-nothing, Storm.
By the time we hit the third, my jersey’s clinging to my chest and soaked through. I’ve stopped twenty-two shots, and my legs fucking burn.
They finally get one past me midway through the period—quick redirect in traffic, screened by two of their guys and Chase’s ass. Not my best angle, but not a soft goal either.
Doesn’t matter. We’re still up, and we tighten as they regroup.
“Eyes on twelve,” I call, tracking their sniper, who hangs near the dot. I’ve seen him finish those backdoor passes with surgical hands.
The puck swings wide—shot incoming.
I drop. Blocker save, then I kick out hard, pushing off left to smother the rebound before anyone can crash my crease.
Whistle.
Eli leans in on the next draw and wins it clean. He flips it to Viktor, who eats a hit but gets it out of the zone. Jake skates it down and doesn’t miss.
Three-one, final.
